Mentalist Episode Tag: The Great Red Dragon, 6x7
by Donnamour1969
Summary: Missing scene from 6x7. Lisbon really should have let Jane have it. Spoilers 6x6 and 6x7. Rated T for mild language.


A/N: I had decided not to write any tags until after 6x8, but Glindaloveshoes asked so nicely on Twitter, that I couldn't refuse. I'm still a bit flummoxed by this episode, and have the feeling that Bertram isn't really Red John. But I've no real proof; just a feeling that the other shoe will drop next episode. I still have the faint hope that Partridge is really still alive and I'll be vindicated that I was right all along about him, but as justlook3 advised me, I should really just let that go, lol.

So here's a little scene I wished we'd gotten. Because I don't know about you girls out there, but I'd be seriously pissed off if a man had just bared his soul to me, then abandoned me on the side of the road. Just sayin'.

**Episode Tag: The Great Red Dragon, 6x7**

"Cho, have you seen-?"

They were standing outside her office when Lisbon suddenly caught sight of a blonde head resting on white couch cushions.

"Never mind," she said with relief and looked at Jane through her glass doors, who no doubt had searched for and found a quiet and comfortable place to rest.

"Okay," said Cho, and went about his business. He had to find someone without a tattoo to guard Smith. The basement was getting pretty full of people whose arms he'd checked and sent directly to holding. People he used to consider friends.

Lisbon, meanwhile had her own difficult, though far more personal task. She pushed open her office door and walked over to her guest. She could usually tell when he was asleep, or at least giving an excellent imitation. At the moment he wasn't even trying to pretend, his eyes opening slightly when he sensed her gaze.

"What?" he asked, ready to jump to his feet if she'd brought news.

"Nothing. I mean, no news about Bertram."

Jane's ears were still ringing from the explosion, and his head had been pounding all day. He still felt rather dazed, a bit hazy about events at his house. He'd found a few quiet moments after his interview with Smith to try to think more clearly, to sort things through, to tap into his memories of the moments before the explosion. Much of what Smith has told him about the Blake Association he'd guessed, though hearing it confirmed seemed to change everything. Bertram could very well be Red John—he certainly fit many of the characterizations he'd heard over the years. That was why he'd been one of the final seven, after all.

But now, something pointed Jane to someone with more depth, with something more sinister behind the eyes. He'd have to see Bertram face-to-face again to be sure, knowing what he knew now. There was always the possibility that Red John had been lying about that list in the first place, trying to throw him off with a dramatic display of metaphysical chicanery. It wouldn't be beyond the serial killer's character to still be out there, safely watching with psychopathic amusement while Jane and the CBI chased their tails. Still, Jane's gut told him it had to be someone on that list, and Bertram was the last little Indian. Or so he'd been manipulated to believe.

"I'm glad you're okay, Jane. Truly. But I want you to know I haven't forgotten what you did to me."

"Hmm?" he said, having only been half listening once she said there was no news.

She was leaning against the small table, her eyes clear, yet determined.

_Here we go_, he thought morosely. He'd been expecting this conversation, just not so soon after he'd lived through an explosion.

"You left me there, Jane, on that bluff. I couldn't believe you left me. Okay, yes I could. It was probably my fault I didn't suspect you'd do such a thing. Fool me once, etcetera, etcetera." She waved one small hand in disgust, and Jane wondered when she'd actually start talking to _him_ instead of picking up the thread of some internal monologue.

She had Jane's full attention now, and he slowly sat up, disappointed that the aspirin he'd taken hadn't made much of a difference.

"I'm sorry for that," he said sincerely. "It was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do, Lisbon."

She stared at him a moment, and he knew she didn't believe him, although he meant every word, just like he'd meant what he'd said as they stood in the last beautiful rays of the sun that day. He had honestly thought at the time that it might have been his last sunset.

He sighed in defeat, and a trace of his old smile, many days dormant, curved his lips. "Would it make you feel better to punch me now? It'll be a freebie, since my head hurts too badly to resist."

"Two days ago, I might have taken you up on that," she said wryly. "Look, I understand why you did it. But if you meant anything you said on that bluff, I started having my doubts the moment you drove away. Keep telling yourself that you were trying to protect me, but that's bullshit and we both know it. You didn't want me in the way. Didn't want me to stop you. Don't tell me it was something you _had _to do," she finished softly. "You were being selfish and possessive of Red John. You wanted him on your own terms, and damn anyone who would want to protect you from yourself."

It was hard to deny the truth, especially when accompanied by a pair of intense green eyes.

"I don't deny it. Any of it. But I am sorry I hurt you."

She ignored his apology. They were just words to him anyway, she'd found.

"You know what hurts the most, Jane? You used our—our—personal relationship against me. While you were hugging me, you were stabbing me in the back at the same time."

His eyebrows rose at her unusual infusion of the melodramatic. "Et tu, Jane?"

She crossed her arms before her. "So you get my point. Good. But you seem to forget one thing," she said. "I want the bastard too, but I'm not willing to sacrifice your life to get him."

"And I wasn't willing to sacrifice yours, Lisbon," he replied softly.

They stared at one another, at their usual impasse.

"You should have let me or the team help you. God knows your plan wasn't exactly successful."

"No," he admitted. "I didn't count on one of them blowing up the place. But had you been there, Lisbon, you might have been among the dead."

"Or not," she countered. "There would have been strength in numbers. Maybe I might have seen something you didn't, prevented it from happening. Those men who died might very well have been innocent."

"McAllister wasn't," said Jane. "He had a tattoo. I feel no grief at his passing."

"But Ray…" said Lisbon, feeling the sudden sadness for a man she'd once considered her friend.

"I'm sorry," he said. Funny how the more he said it, the easier it was. "Haffner was an idiot, but probably didn't deserve to die like that."

"How very kind of you. Forgive me if I don't pass along your sentiments to his mother."

Jane closed his eyes, pressing his throbbing head against the back of the couch.

"Okay, Lisbon. Here's my promise to you: I promise not to make any more promises. That way, neither of us will be disappointed."

"You're an ass," she said simply, but she was almost smiling when she said it.

"Guilty as charged," he readily acknowledged. "Now, would you mind? I'd really like to catch a few winks before things start to pick up speed again…"

"So, you want me to leave you in _my_ office so you can sleep on _my _couch?" His audacity could still astound her.

He lay back down on her couch, pulling the throw blanket up to his chest. "Now who's being possessive?" he said around a yawn.

He thought sleepily that she must have acquiesced to his request, when suddenly he felt the light brush of soft hair against his neck, the brief warmth of smooth lips upon his cheek. He didn't dare open his eyes for fear of—well, for fear that it hadn't been a dream.

"Ass," he heard again as she settled into her desk chair. But he didn't mistake the affection in her voice when she said it. He smiled as he drifted off.

He supposed Saint Teresa had forgiven him once again.

**A/N: There. I feel a little bit better. Hoped it helped you too. Oh, and by the way, my favorite scene was when Jane was questioning that cop. Classic Jane, and beautifully done by Simon Baker. Drew Powell was amazing as well, as Reede Smith. Until next week, please check out my new fic "Private Eyes." I'll be updating that one soon.**


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